Resolve
by Knight Falchion
Summary: Purpose can be found in terrible acts. IV, melodramatic reading of a certain early-game death scene.


Remnants of smoke from the burning village hung about the still branches of the Kiccigiorgi forest, its acrid tang mixing with the sharp scent of blood- a scent which was strongest around the battle unfolding between four prentice samurai and a former man.

Even as a demon, Issachar was incredibly weak. Every agonized strike he'd turned Flynn's way had been easily caught on the samurai's blade, and between the four prentices he was soon forced into his current position- one knee on the ground, scarlet stains smeared across his already sweat-ridden garb, and his head tilted to gaze up at his old companion with an exhausted, desperate expression.

It was clear what he wanted before he said it, and this brought a slight frown to Flynn's otherwise stony countenance.

"Flynn, please, kill me."

The plea was barely audible and weak, but it was more than strong enough to grab the samurai's attention with cold, digging fingers and forcibly narrow it to his childhood friend. His childhood friend, the man who'd been like an older brother to him, dying, asking him to finish the job, mere days after they'd shared that final moment of rest on the shores of Lake Mikado.

This was wrong. Utterly wrong.

But as spasms continued to wrack Issachar's twisted body, each one bringing with it a new whimpering gasp, Flynn realized that the miserable conclusion was already determined. Issachar would die- now or later, by one last strike from Flynn's blade or by the cruel wounds already dealt. Either way, his hands were stained. The least he could do was try to end his friend's suffering.

The samurai indicated his decision with a mere nod, unable to speak. Nothing seemed appropriate. Not even his silence seemed fitting, but it at least would not ring hollow. Both Walter's affirmation and Jonathan's protest of his choice slipped through his ears without consequence, failing to find any purchase in his numb mind, and why should he care what they thought on the matter? They weren't the ones murdering the last living soul they had been genuinely close to. Why should they think their opinions held any weight when their only connection to the victim was through Flynn himself- a tenuous connection at best? Isabeau at least had enough sympathy to remain silent.

Blood trickled down the edge of Flynn's katana as he shifted into an overhead stance, focusing on his own practiced, clinical motions- anything but Issachar's tormented visage. One quick cut. One quick cut and it'd be over. He'd be released from this hellish torture.

The samurai's sword fell with a shuddering breath and immediately the cut felt off, disconnected, wrong, so he tried to correct its arc but to no avail. Flynn felt every jagged angle of his uneven blow resonate up his arm with abhorrent clarity, each sickening jerk driving chilling claws of guilt and horror through his abdomen. Issachar fell back, mouth and hideous wound alike agape in a noiseless scream, and Flynn fell forward with him, going to his knees. His katana fell from his hand as his fingers grasped at the wound and tried desperately to close it, to fix his ghastly mistake, and the ever-weakening pulse of Issachar's warm blood was a persistent accusation.

He'd failed him. His last request, and he'd failed him.

Flynn was numb to everything but the fading beat of his friend's heart, a beat that drained the last remnants of heat and life from his body; the sensation left the samurai sickened and weak, as if his own blood drained alongside Issachar's. He wanted so desperately to mend the wound he'd caused, to reverse it all, and get rid of this crushing, despondent guilt for how his actions had so severely hurt his lifelong companion.

However, when he looked up to impart this sorrow and beg for forgiveness in what little time they had left, only to see gratitude in Issachar's dull eyes, he was speechless. The dying man summoned what little strength he had left and rasped out a final supplication of his own. "Please... become a magnificent samurai, and change this rotten world." Flynn's grip on the man's bloody shirt tightened as he struggled to form a response, even though he knew the ears it was intended for would not hear it. Issachar's last breath, last spark of life, had gone into that request and left his body limp beneath the samurai's fingers. A promise hung from his lips, a mere breath away from falling, but he clamped them shut firmly as he became aware of the others approaching.

The queries after his well-being stopped short when Flynn stood and turned to face them. All three of his fellow prentices' visages were marked by clear sympathy and concern, and he knew that some of the pain had to remain on his own for their questions to be answered so quickly.

Burrough's warning of another demon sounded loud and clear, startling all four of them to attention, and Flynn took the opportunity to move onwards to avoid dwelling on it any longer. There was no use for that when he had an unspoken promise to fulfill.

He would not fail Issachar again.


End file.
